Ride Out the Storm
by Neocolai
Summary: They would survive, and they would go on, for they were warriors of the line of Durin and they would never turn their backs.


**Don't ask where this idea came from. What can I say, the Muses are rabid and there was a contest involved. **

**Warning. Gruesome injury. (You can decide which Dwarf got the worst helping of angst this time.)**

* * *

Like the snick of the lock on an old, weathered chest. Like the creaking finality of a slamming door. Like the burning, white hot inferno of a bear trap enhanced by flames.

With a groan that could scarcely be heard over the howling winds the two edges of the cliffside smashed together, shale and debris crumbling into the yawning expanse below. A shriek of pain rose above the clash of stone as rain lashed down in relentless torrents and blood mixed with trickles of water.

Falling hard to one knee, the young prince screamed and lashed out, instinctively yanking at his trapped foot and releasing a keen of anguish when bolts of lightning erupted behind his eyes. White bone glistened in the night.

The leader's voice was unheard over the storm, his shout of horror mingled with the panicked cries of the others as he raced to his fallen kin. Glazed, widened eyes clashed with blue flames: agony speared into heart wrenched terror. Another boulder shattered over their heads, pelting them with shards of crushed rock. Covering his eyes and shouting his nephew's name, the future king cast aside all thoughts of his own survival as he leapt forward to shield one far more precious.

A quicker shadow bolted under his arm, nearly pushing him off the cliff for frantic desperation. Skidding to his knees, the young prince threw his arms around his brother and pillowed the other's head against his shoulder, incoherent pleas and babbles intended to comfort holding the other steady as a pasty hand clasped in a white knuckled grip around his forearm.

Dropping to his knees, their guardian assessed the damage with but a glance. The blood drained from his face and hope vanished, cold blue orbs empty and destitute as he nodded to one of the other Dwarves.

"What are you ...? No. No, no, no_, no, no _- _**No!"**_

All he could do was hold his nephews tightly and pull them back as the heavy blade of an axe flashed in a burst of lightning. Dual screams, of disbelief and terror and rage, rose above the thunderstorm as blood spurted and the wounded prince slid free of the cliff's entrapment. Crimson spurted from the severed limb, the crushed, mangled foot unable to be saved even by the master healers of the Elves.

One glance was all that was needed for the injured one to pass out from blood loss, shock and pain. Ragged, disjointed screams were torn from the other as he stared at the jagged stump of his brother's leg. His breathing grew rapid and his eyes rolled back in his head, and his uncle instantly reached out to steady him as the healer cursed and pressed his wadded cloak against the other's gruesome injury. Recovering swiftly, the prince's horror reverted to anger as he vented his anguish against the only one he could find to blame.

"I hate you! I hate you! I hate you!"

Fists slammed against the leader's chest, broken sobs interjected with curses as he bore the brunt of his nephew's pain.

"You could have saved him! What am I supposed to tell him? _Mahal_, what am I going to do?"

He could not think. He could not act. There was nothing before, and nothing to return to. The future had been devastated with the single stroke of an axe. Only destruction lay before and behind.

_They should never have come. Mahal, I should never have let them come._

A hand shook his shoulder, the words of his eldest and most trusted adviser breaking him free of his dismay.

"Rivendell. Back to Rivendell!"

He glanced up, receiving a brusque, frantic nod from the healer. A cloak was spread on the ground and their two strongest gently lifted their wounded prince. His head lolled back, and for an instant it was feared that he was already lost to them. With unrivaled tenderness they lifted their heavy burden, grief mingling with the tears of the rain. Despair was tangible. Hope trailed away like the pattering of blood vanishing among the stones.

He pulled his nephew to his feet, dragging him onward as he screamed and writhed, reaching behind him for his brother. He could not let him go, no matter how his heart ripped and bled as he ignored the young one's broken pleas. Time was their only hope if the other was to survive.

They would hold onto one another soon enough, when the gates of Erabor were closed to them and they learned to survive in a new and terrifying world that threatened the very bond that held them so close together. Hampered: impaired: the one would have to be strong enough to uphold the other.

Heartache and newfound purpose lay ahead. Childhood innocence lay crushed in the bloody rivulets of stone. They were warriors now, though they might never fight in battle alongside their kin. When the sun rose above the Elven gates and they stood in silence, bathed in the glow of a morning that should have brought dreams for a glorious future, they would look to the Misty Mountains and remember.

But they would not be left behind. For never would a warrior of courage forsake his kin, nor a prince of honor abandon his king. They would survive, and they would go on, for they were warriors of the line of Durin and they would never turn their backs.


End file.
